


though i have closed myself as fingers

by veilfyre (paragades)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Pregnancy, a lot of fluff, i think we're all in dire need of some solavellan fluff right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-15 10:13:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 17,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5782192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paragades/pseuds/veilfyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her heart is beating unbearably fast now, and before she has time to overthink, she blurts it out.</p><p>“I’m with child.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“Are you absolutely sure?” Ellana had asked the healer._

_With a neutral expression on her face, the woman had nodded. “I have no doubt, Your Worship.”_

 

* * *

 

Solas and her, she supposes, had never talked about children. The only time they had broached the subject had been when they decided to have contraception potions brewed for her. When they ran out on unexpectedly long trips, they would turn to other methods, such as withdrawal, and much to both their disdain, they sometimes would not have sex at all until their return to Skyhold. Solas had been very adamant, and it seemed only sensible to her. After all, bringing another living being into the world in the middle of a war hadn’t seemed very sensible to her, either.

But somehow, _this_ had happened despite their precautionary measures. She is supposed to be the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor, and now she is _pregnant_. All things considered, she muses, this could not get any worse. Well, save for the fact that Solas had left her, seemingly out of the blue, over a fortnight ago. Which, quite frankly, she doesn’t see herself getting over any time soon.

And really, does she actually _want_ a baby?

Creators forgive her, she knows she has the worst timing, but they would fight Corypheus soon, and if she lived through that… A little babe with Solas’ eyes and lips, perhaps her nose and her slightly unruly hair—would it be so wrong of her to want that?

Ellana lets her hand wander down to her stomach. There is no visible swell there yet, but she indulges herself and lets her hand linger for a while anyway. Not too long ago, she might even have dared to imagine the three of them as a family, in the distant future, once everything settles down, but now…

She lets the thought trail off before it turns into something more unpleasant. _It doesn’t matter,_ she thinks. _I will take care of my little one_.

What she _wants_ , though, is an entirely different matter. Pictures of Solas and her and their newborn child keep her awake that night, and the next morning she wakes up feeling absolutely knackered.

After breakfast—which she is barely able to keep down, despite her hunger—she watches Morrigan and her son, Kieran, in the garden. They are studying a book together, and even from a distance, Morrigan seems much more softer around him than usually.

Ellana wonders about the boy’s father. As these things go, there are several possibilities, she supposes. Morrigan might not want him around, or perhaps he was the one who had no wish to see his son. For all she knows, he might even be dead. She knows, of course, that plenty of children grow up with only one parent, and that they turn out just fine, but her throat closes up at the thought of her child not knowing its father.

Because Solas is thoughtful and knowledgeable, patient and calm, and she is still utterly in love with him, and if she has ever been sure about something, then it is that he would be a great father.

_Besides, it is as much his child as it is yours. He deserves to know_ , she tells herself.

She finds him in the rotunda, bent over a book on his desk, and for a brief moment, she starts to panic. Bandits, rifts and demons, even dragons she can handle, but she has to steady herself against the doorframe for a moment and take a deep breath before she trusts herself to speak.

Solas, though, has heard her already (sometimes his sharpened senses are almost unsettling), and looks to her with a worried look on his face—or maybe it’s just her imagination. These days she isn’t sure of anything when it comes to him.

“Inquisitor,” Solas says in a level voice, and the concern must have been wishful thinking, after all. “How may I help you prepare for our final battle?”

“We need to talk”, she tells him and hopes that she sounds as calm as him.

"I'm afraid that wouldn't be appropriate at this time. We must focus on what truly matters."

“I’m sorry, but it can’t wait, Solas.” The insistence in her voice has him looking up, visibly taken aback by her immediacy.

He snaps his book shut and sets it aside, an unreadable expression on his face. Before he starts speaking, he gets up and clasps his hands behind his back, and that posture is so _him_ that her heart aches. “Very well. What is the matter?”

_Pregnant!_ , an unhelpful voice in her head yells. _I’m pregnant!_ _And it’s yours! Congratulations!_

Ellana fixes her eyes on the strange pendant of his necklace. Some animal’s jawbone, she assumes. She’s pretty sure that if she didn’t, she’d start to cry every moment, and that’d be the last thing she needs right now.

Her heart is beating unbearably fast now, and before she has time to overthink, she blurts it out.

“I’m with child.”

She waits for his reaction, but there is none. He’s completely still, his face as unreadable as ever. Anxiety is starting to creep up her spine when he still doesn’t say anything. She can, to some extent, live with him rejecting her, but she doesn’t know what she’d do if he acted indifferently towards their unborn child.

Solas must have been still for mere moments, but to her it feels like hours.

“Ir abelas,” he says eventually. “This is my fault.”

His _fault_ . Like their child isn’t proof of their love. Like it’s a _mistake_.

“Well, I’m not,” Ellana tells him, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I will take care of it on my own, if need be. I just wanted to let you know.”

“You...,” he begins, and she thinks that it’s the first time since she has met him that he’s at a loss for words, or at least close to. He sounds almost bewildered. “You would want to keep it?”

“Yes.”

She looks at him, and for one terrifying second his expression cracks and it seems like he might cry, but the moment is gone as quickly as it came, and it leaves her as confused as ever.

The silence is somehow even heavier now, and her fingers are itching to reach out for him, but she knows that she really shouldn’t, so she settles for fidgeting instead. “Solas, I’m not trying to—to pressure you. I just thought it unfair to keep this from you.”

“You might regret this, one day,” he tells her after another stretch of silence.

“No.” The vehemence in her voice has him looking at her, and she offers him a weak smile, more out of embarrassment than anything else.“Besides, you’re grim and fatalistic enough for the both of us.”

That earns her a chuckle, and it makes her traitorous heart flutter in a way that’s absolutely unacceptable. From the corners of her eyes she can see him opening his mouth to speak, but the words drown out as a wave of nausea crashes over her.

She does manage to keep down the bile rising in her throat, which, she feels the need to point out, is no small feat. The next time she is forced to attend some ridiculous Orlesian party, they should add it to her introduction. _It would be just as impressive_ , she thinks, when all of a sudden she feels too dizzy to form any more coherent thoughts.

Then her vision fades to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I borrowed the title from a poem by E. E. Cummings.
> 
> "your slightest look easily will unclose me  
> though i have closed myself as fingers,  
> you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens  
> (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose"


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing that returns to her is her hearing.

“—capable of taking care of her.”

“That’s grand, coming from the man who _left_ her!”

“I am sure that the Inquisitor would appreciate your concern, but that is a private matter, Dorian. Now, if you will excuse me, I would like to make sure she is all right.”

Ellana hears the click of a door closing and, very tentatively, manages to open her eyes.

She’s lying on a bed, but she recognizes the room at once. It’s small and not exactly lavishly furnished, but there are books everywhere; on the desk, on the bedside table, some even neatly stacked on the floor. She has been here before more times than she can count—it belongs to Solas. The sheets smell of his musk, too faint to be heady, but as she takes a deep breath, the scent of elfroot and peppermint washes over her, overpowering everything else.

When she props herself up, Solas turns around, and to her surprise he smiles. There’s a steaming mug in his hand, the source of the smell, she supposes, and she quirks a brow.

“I thought you detested tea?”

“I do,” he answers, sitting down next to her on the edge of the bed.  “Fortunately, it is not for me. This should help alleviate your nausea.”

She takes the mug from him and nods her thanks, strangely touched. The concoction tastes like, well, elfroot and peppermint, but it doesn’t make her stomach churn and is pleasantly warm, and it kind of reminds her of when she was sick as a child and would be doted on.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I just fainted,” she jokes weakly.

“Vhenan,” he sighs, a little exasperated, but amused, and did he—did he really just call her _vhenan_?—but he doesn’t even seem to notice. “We shall keep it a secret for now. I’m afraid it would provide a target for too many enemies, both yours and mine.”

Ellana raised her eyebrows. “Yours?”

“A long story.” He pauses. “Promise me you will not leave Skyhold without me.”

“At all? _Why_?”

“Satha, Ellana. Mahn ame, ane eth.”

Her breath hitches. If Solas notices, he doesn’t say anything, and so she simply nods, partly because there’s no point in arguing with him, and partly because the notion makes her feel all warm and fuzzy.

“You’re taking this surprisingly well.” _For someone who broke up with me not too long ago_ , she adds in her head.

And that was the sore spot, wasn’t it? For all intents and purposes, they weren’t together any longer. He had treated her very politely after he had ended their relationship, but he had been so distant and impersonal that she couldn’t stand to talk to him for very long.

He hadn’t even called her by her first name anymore.

For him to call her _vhenan_ again, to tell her that he wants to keep her safe…

If he wants to be a good father to their child, it’s more than she could have hoped for and she would do her best to keep their relationship cordial, but if he would want to reconcile simply because they are expecting a child, not because he truly longs to be with her as she does—that’s a thought she can’t bear.

“I have never thought about having children,” he admits, “but I am not averse. Though I might not feel that way if it were not for you.”

Ellana opens her mouth and then closes it again, because what is she supposed to say to that? There is quite a difference between breaking up with someone and telling them _this_.

“Solas, I’ve made this decision knowing where we stand. Believe me when I say that I wouldn’t take advantage of the situation by trying to get you to commit yourself to me.” She schools her features into a neutral expression before continuing. “You have made clear that it isn’t what you want.”

He turns away from her so she can’t see his face anymore, and it pains her that he always feels the need to hide some part of him from her, as if she wouldn’t understand. As if she wouldn’t _try_ to understand, at least.

She thinks that she would love each and every part of him, good or bad, this world or the next, so she takes his hand and squeezes it, smiling sadly.

When Ellana tries to pull away, he doesn’t let her, running his thumb over her wrist instead, and it seems to calm him more than her. He seems to fight with himself, and that, too, is a familiar expression, one she had seen almost every time before they had made love. Kiss by kiss she had chased it away until there had been nothing but warmth and want in his eyes, and she desperately wants to do the same now.

Solas works his throat silently before he speaks, breaking the silence that had settled between them again. “Allowing myself to love you might very well be the most selfish thing I have ever done, and I have done a great many of them.”

“Some things, ‘ma’sal’shiral, are inevitable. Such as our love.”

His face softens at her words, and he closes his eyes. When he opens them again, though the old pain is lingering, they are full of love and adoration.

It leaves her utterly breathless.

“Such as our love,” he agrees, then, and she must be crying, because her cheeks suddenly feel warm and wet, and this might just be a little embarrassing, but she can’t bring herself to care right now.

Before Solas can say anything, she sniffles, “I’m blaming this on the pregnancy hormones.”

“Of course.” He sounds solemn, but she can see the mirth dancing in his eyes, and it soon has her laughing in return.

Then he turns his attention to her stomach. It’s still flat—as flat as it had always been, that is—but his touch is perhaps as much of a personal indulgence as hers had been earlier. There’s a reverence in the way his thumb caresses her now bare skin that moves her deeply, and it makes her shiver.

“Fenain,” he mumbles, eyes still locked on her stomach, before he presses a chaste kiss to her forehead. “You should rest in your quarters.”

There’s a protest on her lips as soon as he ends his sentence. She can feel herself starting to panic, afraid that he will shut himself away as soon as she leaves, that he will close up as he has done so many times before, but he shuts her up by cupping her cheek, stroking it with his thumb. “Ha’mi’in, my heart. There are plans to be altered and preparations to be made. I will come to you later.”

She sincerely hopes so, for his sake. Dorian might electrocute him alive if he doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Satha: Please.   
>  Mahn ame, ane eth: Where I am, you are safe.   
>  ‘Ma’sal’shiral: My life. Essentially, “Love of my life,” or “You are my soul’s journey.”   
>  Fenain: Wolf pup; little wolf.   
>  Ha’mi’in: Peace; relax.   
>  All credit for the Elvhen goes to FenxShiral!


	3. Chapter 3

Dorian finds her as soon as she leaves the room.

“Ah, there you are! I was wondering when our favorite hobo apostate would release you,” he tells her, but before she can respond, he shoots her a scrutinizing look. “Ellana, did you _cry_?”

“Oh, I—yes, but—”

“Sweet Maker. I’m going to have to kill him.”

“Dorian—”

“Poor Josephine will not be pleased if this goes public, but I’m sure she’ll understand.”

"For the love of—"

"We will all mourn him, of course."

“Creators! We just had a… talk,” she finishes lamely.

He clicks his tongue. “Don’t tell me you had a relapse.”

“You, young man, should be glad that I didn’t breathe a word the first Gods know how many times you took off with Bull, blaming it on the alcohol the next morning!” she reminds him without malice.

“Such ingratitude from the woman that ruined several of my perfectly fine shirts by crying into them all night not too long ago.”

She smiles. “I love you, too, Dorian.”

“Of course you do.” He looks at her and sighs. “I just don’t want you to get hurt again.”

Ellana really does love him, and considers telling him that she’s lucky to have him as her best friend, but then again he knows already, so she just smiles and leans forward to peck his cheek.

* * *

 

It’s long dark outside when Solas slips into her quarters, and Ellana is half asleep on the settee by then.

“Ir abelas,” he tells her. “I did not mean to keep you waiting.”

A sleepy smile spreads across her face at the sound of his voice. It’s actually a little embarrassing that she had tried to stay up so she wouldn’t miss him, so she just crinkles her nose.

“Nydha i’ma,” Ellana says. “Maybe you didn’t, and Cullen’s reports were just too enthralling to let me sleep.”

Solas chuckles, the sound warm and rich. “It is late, vhenan. You should be in bed.”

“Join me?”

Subtlety has never been her strong suit, but when she finds herself on the bed not much later, his warm body pressing against hers, she somehow finds it hard to care. His fingers are travelling up and down the curve of her waist, and she can feel the heat of them through the thin fabric of the shift she is wearing.

She captures his lips then, and their kiss, hungry, and yet so gentle and sweet that it has her melting, leaves her breathless and desperate for air. When they finally part, she feels a profound sense of loss, and his eyes on her are undoubtedly glazed.

Ellana might have laughed if it weren’t for her own ridiculous arousal.

Solas frees her of her shift and leaves a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat that have her panting. Moving lower, he nips at her neck and collarbone and then cups her breasts, stroking her nipples with calloused fingers.

“You are so beautiful,” he tells her, voice rough, as he lavishes his attention on her stomach, “‘vhenan.”

When she lets her fingers caress the pointed tip of his ear, he shudders.

Then he dips his head between her thighs. He trails a finger across her opening, slick with want, and parts her, letting his tongue follow. She lets out a shuddered moan when he delves his tongue into her.

Unable to stay still, Ellana bucks, and when he uses one of his hands to pin down her hips, it makes the feeling of his tongue lapping at her, dragging between her folds, all the more intense.

He sucks and licks and kisses like she’s the most delicious thing he’s ever come across.

“Solas, _please_ , I need—”

He seems to know exactly what she needs, because he replaces his tongue with his fingers, the sound of them working into her wetness almost obscene. She’s not sure what she wants more—to come like this or to have Solas inside her, but when he crooks his fingers, flicking her clit with his tongue, all coherent thought leaves her.

Ellana comes with his name on her lips and her back arched, sheets twisted between her hands.

She’s utterly boneless as he kisses his way up her body and nuzzles her neck, but his hard length rocking against her hips sends a spark of electricity through her veins, and she takes pleasure in removing his clothing until he is bare before her.

“‘Ma’sa’lath,” she sighs as she embraces him, pressing her lips to his brow. “I missed you.”

Solas makes a soft, broken noise in the back of his throat and his arms tighten around her almost painfully.  “Ar lath ma,” he whispers.

Then she parts her legs for him, and he slides into her, his hand curling around hers, intertwining their fingers. She closes her eyes as her hips come up to meet him, pulling him deeply inside her. A soft moan escapes her as he moves inside her, letting him fill her again and again.  
  
They set an unhurried pace, tender and slow, even as his lips brush her ears, every shuddering exhale setting her nerves on fire.  

Of course they had done it rough before—rutting against each other, slick with sweat and other bodily fluids, hips snapping furiously—and that was perfect, too, but she loves him like this, sweet and gentle and so intense, and it takes her breath away.

The room is filled with the sound of skin against skin, soft moans and gasped breaths and whispered nothings, and Ellana burns with the fullness of him, stretching her, as he sinks deeper into her with every thrust.

With a soft, shuddering sigh, she falls to pieces, her body trembling with the pleasure that pulses over her in gentle waves. She pulls Solas down, sucking the skin of his neck into her mouth, and then he jerks into her with a strangled noise, spending himself inside her, hips pumping shallowly as he rides out his climax.

They lie entangled like this for a while, catching their breaths, before he settles on his side and draws her close against his chest. 

“Shall I let you get back to the commander’s reports?” Solas asks her, a teasing smile dancing around his lips.

She knows that he isn’t serious, but she can’t help herself as she tightens the arm around him that she had flung over his waist earlier.

“Stay,” Ellana says firmly, pressing a kiss to his chest.

She falls asleep with his hand on her stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nydha i’ma: The night is with you; a nighttime greeting.   
>  ‘Ma’sa’lath: My one love.   
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> This was actually meant to be longer, but life got in the way and I wanted to have it posted before the end of this week as I'm taking my first exam this week and am not yet sure how much time I can spare for writing. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for all the feedback. I truly appreciate it!


	4. Chapter 4

They travel to the Emerald Graves to close remaining rifts one last time while Cullen waits for the return of some of his men to prepare for the final confrontation with Corypheus.

Waiting has never been her forte, and she jumps at the chance to get out of Skyhold. 

It all passes without incident—the task easy enough by now, really—until they happen across more Freemen. 

They are on their way to the nearest camp and taken by surprise. Solas is low on mana, Cassandra has let her guard down, and Varric seems to be somewhere else with his thoughts. 

All things considered, they do pretty well.

Until Ellana ends up with a dagger to her throat, that is.

Not her best moment so far, but then again the Freemen’s rogue would probably have slit her throat by now if he truly had wanted to kill her.

Solas, however, speaks up before she—or anyone else—can react.

“If you do not drop your weapon at once, I will set your insides on fire,” he says. His voice is calm, but she can see the barely contained fury in his eyes.

The man dies screaming.

They’re silent as they make their way to the camp, tension only leaving Solas when she allows him to strip her down in their tent to examine her for any injuries, and he doesn’t find any.

 

* * *

 

They defeat Corypheus.

They might be battered and bruised, but they are victorious.

The orb is shattered in the process, and Solas—he  _ mourns _ the loss of it, for lack of a better word. 

He doesn’t join their cheers, his lips in a tight line, but he does walk beside her, a hand at the small of her back.

At Skyhold he’s absent from the celebrations, but she later finds him waiting for her in her quarters.

That night Solas takes her with an urgent need, leaving marks on her skin he will heal later.

When the sun rises the next morning, Ellana wakes up tucked against his side.

 

* * *

 

She spends the next weeks dealing with politics. 

Already, they are an  anathema to many, now that they have  averted the imminent destruction of Thedas.

Saving the world is a thankless job, it seems.

Urged by Josephine, she visits Halamshiral and Denerim. The talks go well enough, but she has no doubt that things will escalate in the future. The thought alone gives her a headache of monumental proportions, and she sets off for Skyhold exhausted.

At least Solas is waiting for her, even if there had been a heated discussion about that trip before she left, and Josephine’s insistence that she should go alone.

She travels home in one of her looser outfits—it’s the stress, mostly, and the fact that it’s kept under wraps, so she can’t talk about it to anyone, but impossible as it may seem, she doesn’t often think about the fact she is with child. 

Up until now.

She’s starting to show. If she’s being quite honest, it looks more like she’s just had a big meal, really, or perhaps like she’s awfully bloated, but she still marvels at the change.

At Skyhold, Ellana’s arrival goes largely unnoticed. She’s glad for it; after weeks of decorum, she doesn’t think she has it in her to engage in any more polite, meaningless conversations. 

She freshens up in her quarters instead, before she goes looking for Solas. He’s not in the rotunda, but his desk there is cluttered with books and other writings about the Veil.  _ Typical _ , she thinks fondly.

After stopping to chat with Varric, she eventually finds him in his room, every possible surface cluttered the same way his space in the rotunda is. 

Ellana can’t stop the sappy smile from spreading across her face.    
  
She’s glad that no one is around to see, because she’d never hear the end of it.

When Solas notices her presence, he looks relieved. She can feel it in the way he embraces her, and in the lingering kiss they share, too. They stand like this for a while, her head tucked under his chin, nuzzling his throat.

“You are back,” he says warmly. “How did it go?” 

“I think I’ve only just allayed their suspicions,” she sighs. “I’m not sure for how long. They act like we’re on some quest for world domination.”

“Ah, yes. Those in power are rarely willing to share it.”

“I’m not interested in power.” Interested in making sure that whoever is in power doesn’t misuse it, maybe, but she had only took up the role as leader because no one else had been willing.

“And that is what makes you so dangerous. They fear you because your motivations are unlike their own. You are an unpredictable factor.”

“In all honesty, I think they just want their strongholds back.”

Solas laughs, the sound vibrant and resonating, and it’s the most soothing thing she has heard in weeks.

That reminds her.

Without much ceremony,  she pulls off her tunic, standing before him in her breastband. 

His mouth twitches. “You are very forward today, even for your standards. Are you in a hurry, vhenan?” 

“If I was,” she says, giving him a toothy smile, “we wouldn’t be talking right now.” Then she turns so he can see her from the side, cupping the slight swell of her stomach. “Look,” she whispers.

Ellana can hear his breath catch as he steps closer, as he pulls her into him again, her back to his chest now, both of his hands on her bare stomach.

“Arasha.” Solas places a kiss just below her ear. “I do not have any words.”

She laughs softly. “There’s a first time for everything.”

“Then I am glad that it is you I am experiencing this first time with.”

“Me too,” she smiles, and twists her head to kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arasha: My happiness.


	5. Chapter 5

He does not dare to wish that he would have met her when Elvhenan was a glorious empire still, before he had brought about its downfall. If not for his hot-bloodedness and cockiness he would loathe for her to witness, then for the fact that her soul, a precious and beautiful thing, inevitably would have been corrupted. He had seen it happen enough times.

Still, he imagines.

She would have been spared by the hardships the Dalish way of life and his actions had put upon her, and she would have been splendid by his side; a worthy mate for the Dread Wolf, but to her—for her—he would always have been Solas.

He would have given her flocks of children, all beautiful like their mother, to whom magic was as natural as breathing.

But here and now he is an unassuming apostate, a hedge mage who has nothing to offer, and yet she carries his child with pride. If not for him, she would have proudly announced it to all of Thedas.

He is her heart as surely as she is his, and he repays her with lies.

_ Not lies _ , he thinks.  _ Omissioned truth _ .

Solas cannot even convince himself.

He remembers how close he had came to telling her, how he had changed his mind in the very last moment, choosing duty over her, thinking he had done the right thing for once, even as the look on her face had shattered him. He remembers the regret that had followed, like a knife twisting deeper every time he had looked at her. 

He thinks about how he has never felt more at peace than with her warm, pliant body draped across his at night, and he knows that she deserves to learn the truth—that she should have learned it long ago.

Solas fears her reaction. 

How his brethren would sneer at him if they could see him now.

Fen’Harel is a monster to her people, the great adversary in their mythology, the bringer of nightmares, and while she has proven to be less ignorant and bigoted than the rest of those he had had the displeasure to encounter, this is something rooted deep within her, the fear of the Dread Wolf.

But he had let her become real, his heart, and there is no turning back now. 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Solas closes the tome he hasn’t been able to focus on for the past hour. A tedious read with no valuable information, one he has no intention of continuing.

He makes sure to remove any notes before he returns it to Dorian—he is quite sure that the magister would not appreciate his annotations concerning the author’s inaccuracies. 

Nightfall is yet to come, and Skyhold, though undeniably quieter, now that many have departed after their victory over Corypheus, has not settled down. The rotunda is no exception.

Unsurprisingly enough, he finds Dorian buried in a book of his own. When he looks up at the sound of his approach and spots him, he gives Solas an exaggerated smile.

“Ah, Solas, my dearest friend!” 

Without much preamble, he hands over the tome. “I meant to return this to you.”

“Yes, and thank you very much. Now why don’t you sit down with me?” 

“Why?” Though the differences between them are not technicalities to be discarded, he supposes he does not dislike the Tevinter. Still, their interactions are normally limited to the occasional, brief conversation during their travels. 

“Tsk, tsk. Always with the questions.” When Solas makes no move, he sighs. “I was hoping we could discuss our lovely Inquisitor.”

“What is it?”

On closer inspection, Dorian looks much more serious than his overly cheery tone lets on. He sits down across from him, at last, for his sake. 

“You would tell me if something was wrong with her, wouldn’t you?” he asks bluntly. 

“Why would there be anything wrong with her?”

“Oh, please. She passes out—happens to me often enough, mind you, but I know she doesn’t share my preference of drinking oneself into a stupor—the both of you reconcile, you’re being more protective than ever, she’s constantly resting… Shall I go on?” 

For a moment, Solas does not know what to say. He knows that Ellana and Dorian are close, of course, yet for some reason he finds his repeated concern for her wellbeing oddly touching.

“I can assure you that she is quite well,” he answers calmly. 

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“I suggest asking her yourself. It is not my place to tell you anything more.”

Dorian looks like he can barely keep himself from rolling his eyes. “Well, this was very helpful, as always.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Well, that’s just grand! What am I supposed to do now?”

Solas almost sighs. “I would suggest telling him.”

“ _ You _ told me that it would be better if no one knew about this. I thought you had a plan.”

“I did not think we would be here long enough for anyone to take notice. I have changed my mind. You are safest here in Skyhold, vhenan.”

Her face softens at his words. “I’m sorry, emma lath. I didn’t mean to snap at you, it’s the damn—”

“Pregnancy hormones?”

She laughs.

It is a beautiful sound, and his heart clenches.

He needs to tell her.

Now.

“I—”

“You’re brooding again,” Ellana chides and, at last, puts away the stack of papers she has been looking at to walk over to him. “I thought we agreed on keeping the brooding to a minimum.”

She presses a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, and this time, he does sigh. 

“There is something I need to talk to you about.”

“This had better be something different than the last time you wanted to talk.” She tries to joke, but he can discern the worry in her voice. It is justified, yet it stings. 

“I would not have you live in fear of my leaving you. I will stay by your side as long as you will have me, my heart.” Solas closes his eyes for a brief moment. “And what I will tell you may change your mind about that.”


	6. Chapter 6

He sounds far too ominous for her liking. 

“I have told you before that the orb is elven—that these foci, dedicated to specific members of our pantheon, were said to channel power from our gods.”

“I remember.”

“The mark you bear was bestowed upon you by the orb of Fen'Harel.”

Well, it certainly isn’t the most far-fetched theory she has heard about the matter so far, and that’s saying something. 

“The Dread Wolf?” She raises her brows. “I was under the assumption that you don’t believe in the Creators.”

“I believe that they existed. I simply do not think any of them were gods, unless you expand the definition of the word to the point of absurdity.”

“I take it you have learned of this in the Fade?” Ellana teases, trying to diffuse the growing tension, but he ignores her playful undertone. 

In fact, he doesn’t even look at her. “I fear that the truth is much simpler. The orb is mine.”

“Very funny, Solas.” She searches his face for a smile, but he looks entirely too serious. Tense. “You aren’t joking. What are you saying? That you—you’re Fen’Harel?”

This is absurd. It couldn’t be—she doesn’t even  _ believe  _ in the gods, not truly, until Mythal, she had always thought they were a myth—and this is Solas, her love, father of her unborn child—

"I was Solas first. 'Fen'Harel' came later... an insult I took as a badge of pride,” he says, eyes fixed on the fire crackling in the hearth. “The Dread Wolf inspired hope in my friends and fear in my enemies... not unlike 'Inquisitor', I suppose.”

She forces herself to breathe. “You betrayed the Evanuris!”

Solas gives a short, mirthless laugh. “I sought to set my people free from slavery to would-be gods. I broke the chains of all who wished to join me. The false gods called me Fen'Harel, and when they finally went too far, I formed the Veil and banished them forever.”

Formed the  _ Veil _ ?

“I don’t feel so good,” she mumbles. He shoots her a concerned look, but she lets herself sink down on the bed before he can move towards her.

When she doesn’t say anything—her mind is reeling, she just doesn’t have any words—he continues. “I lay in dark and dreaming sleep while countless wars and ages passed. I woke still weak a year before I joined you.”

“Your orb—you gave it to Corypheus?  _ Why? _ ”

He sighs. “I did not give it to him directly. My agents allowed the Venatori to locate it. The orb had built up magical energy while I lay unconscious for millennia. I was not powerful enough to open it. The plan was for Corypheus to unlock it, and for the resulting explosions to kill him. Then I would claim the orb. I did not foresee a Tevinter magister having learned the secret of effective immortality."

Isn’t the Dread Wolf supposed to be  _ clever _ ?

"And what, pray tell, would have happened if this absolutely inane plan of yours had worked out?"

“I would have entered the Fade, using the mark you now bear. Then I would have torn down the Veil. As this world burned in the raw chaos, I would have restored the world of my time... the world of the elves."

Ellana thinks she might be sick.

"I never thought of you as someone who would do that,” she tells him. She hopes he can hear the hurt in her voice. 

“You must understand,” Solas says so urgently that she thinks he has, “I awoke in a world where the Veil had blocked most people's conscious connection to the Fade. It was like walking through a world of Tranquil.”

She swallows bile.

“We aren’t even people to you?”

“Not at first. You showed me that I was wrong.”

“Why?” she asks bitterly. “Because I carry your child? Is this what made me a  _ person  _ to you? Is this why you came back to me?”

She’s ashamed of the satisfaction she feels when he flinches. “You know that is not true.” 

“Do I? For all I know I could be some casual dalliance you had your fun with while planning to destroy my world, the Dalish savage, jumping at the chance to spread her legs!”

Solas clenches his jaw. “Do not be unfair. It does not become you.”

“ _ I _ am unfair? You  _ lied _ to me! I love you, do you really think I wouldn’t have understood?”

“What would you have had me say? That I was the great adversary in your people's mythology?”

“I would have had you  _ trust  _ me!” Her voice breaks, and she hates it.

“Ir abelas, vhenan,” he says, closing his eyes. “It was not you I did not trust, it was myself.”

Ellana sighs. What is there left to say? What's done is done. She can’t unlove him, even if she would want to. She knows she should try—he is Fen’Harel, dreaded by her people, yet she believes his words to be true.

Perhaps she’s just a fool, but she’s a fool in love.

“Did you ever love me?” she asks, voice shaking. “Or was it just a ploy to ensure that you would get what you need?”

“Have I not tried to distance myself from you? Have I not questioned your every decision? Why would I do such things if I wanted to bend you to my will?” 

It’d be so lovely if he would just cut the evasive bullshit for once. “That’s not an answer.” 

Solas takes a few measured steps towards where she is sitting on her bed. He looks like a man waiting for judgement.

“You are my heart,” he simply tells her. “I love you. There are no words that could do my feelings for you justice.”

_ He does _ , she realizes, and it’s the weirdest feeling, that she just  _ knows  _ that he’s speaking the truth.

“Tell me to leave, and I will.”

“Stay,” Ellana whispers, as if she is scared to say the words out loud, and reaches for his hands, intertwining them with hers. He’s trembling, she notices, as she gently pulls him on the bed next to her. “Ar lath ma,” she says, and Solas shudders.

It starts out with a soft, almost hesitant kiss, but soon they are undressing each other slowly, carefully, fingertips exploring uncovered skin, gasps and sighs and quiet moans filling the room when he enters her, clutching at each other as they both come undone with an intensity that takes them by surprise.

He tucks her against him afterwards, her head on his chest, and she listens to the soothing sound of his heartbeat. Even now they can’t keep their hands off each other—he runs his fingers up and down her back, she idly draws patterns on his stomach with hers. 

“So what should I call you know?” she asks, still a little breathless.

The corners of his mouth twitch. “Solas will do just fine.”

Ellana hums in agreement. She’s not quite sure if she would be comfortable calling him Fen’Harel. “Hey, Solas?”

“Yes?”

“I feel like I’d really be missing an opportunity if I didn’t make a joke about the Dread Wolf taking me.”

For the first time since they’ve met, she sees Solas rolling his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Lavellan's reaction to the whole _Solas is Fen'Harel_ revelation was a little underwhelming.   
>  Me: *makes it even more underwhelming*
> 
>  
> 
>   
>  ~~I can't help myself. I just want them to be happy.~~  
> 


	7. Chapter 7

Ellana wakes up the next morning and, for a few moments, firmly believes that she had just dreamed the most absurd dream her mind could possibly conjure. When she looks at Solas though—awake already, stretched out on the bed next to her, absorbed in a book—she notices how much more relaxed he looks, as if a burden has been lifted from his shoulders.

That’s probably the case, in a way. She tries to imagine living with a secret of this proportion, never truly able to share it; being painted as  _ the  _ villain for your good intentions.

She thinks about Solas—who loves sharing knowledge perhaps even more than acquiring it, who despite his introverted nature thrives on stories shared around the campfire—being alone, a stranger everywhere he went, and her heart aches.

Ellana knows that her reaction might be a little disproportionate, that she should be angry, if not frightened, but all she feels is sympathy. 

And love.

If this is the height of her folly, she can’t bring herself to care. Not with his warm body next to her, brow furrowing in concentration as he turns the page of his book. 

She would watch him the whole morning if she could, but unfortunately the yawn that escapes her gives her away.

“Sleep well?” 

“Mhm,” she smiles, stretching herself. “What about you?”

“So did I, though I have been awake for quite some time. You sleep like a log, vhenan.” 

“Well, maybe you have just worn me out”—she hesitates for a moment, it’s still a sensitive topic, but the least he can do is let her crack a joke—”my wolf.” 

The look on his face is the most comical thing she has seen in a while. 

“You are impossible,” Solas groans. He looks and sounds so much  _ younger  _ all of a sudden, and it makes her heart jump.

“I get that a lot. Now shall we get up and get some breakfast? I’m starving.”

They do get up eventually, even if it takes a lot more time and touching than necessary. He might be private—she remembers the absolute horror on his face when she had palmed him through his trousers in the rotunda in broad daylight once, and grins—but he’s… handsy. It’s almost weird. When she had first started to have feelings for him, she would never have expected him to be quite this physical in his affections.

Not that she’s complaining. 

When they’re  _ finally  _ dressed, it’s well into forenoon. Sleeping in is one of the few luxuries she indulges in since saving the whole damn world, and she thinks it’s well-earned. 

Breakfast is still served, thank whoever deity there’s still left to thank, and her stomach growls when the smell of eggs and warm, buttered bread hits her.

Ellana really is ravenous. 

 

* * *

 

Solas watches her with amusement as she devours her scrambled eggs and two slices of bread. She’s loading a third one with jelly when Dorian flops down next to her, and she remembers what Solas had told her the night before. He worries about her.

“Ah, Dorian, I’ve been meaning to—”

“Tell me that you’re terribly sorry for neglecting your best and, more importantly, most handsome friend?” 

“Yes, that too.” she admits, and sighs. “I need to talk to you.”

“You know,” Dorian says, snatching the slice of bread from her, “it’s no wonder you’re getting soft around the edges if you always eat like this.”

She makes an indignant noise. “You  _ ass _ ! Are you calling me fat?”

Next to her, Solas snorts, but Dorian looks as innocent as a lamb.

“Those are your words, not mine, sweetheart,” he says, taking a bite from  _ her  _ bread. “What do you want to get off your ample chest?”

Ellana shoots Solas a glance, who seems suspiciously interested in the fruit on his plate all of a sudden.

Very helpful.

“Don’t make a fuss, though.” He scoffs, but she holds up a finger in warning. “I know you, Master Pavus, and you’re very prone to fuss-making!”

“Fine, fine. Now put me out of my misery, would you?”

“I’m—well, Solas and I—we’re expecting.” 

“Expecting what exactly?”

_ Oh, for fuck’s sake. Really? _

“A baby!” she hisses.

"“Fasta vass!" He looks at her like she has just personally disappointed him. "I can’t believe Bull won the bet. He’s going to be so smug, there’ll be no living with him!”

She stares at him, a little incredulous. “You laid bets on whether I was pregnant?” 

“Not at first! Caring as I am, I merely expressed my concern about your well-being. He said he thinks you’re just pregnant.  _ Then  _ I bet against it.” 

“The Iron Bull is very perceptive,” Solas remarks.

“I can’t believe this.”

Dorian gives her a wry look. “I can’t believe the two of you truly have sex, either.”

She considers chucking a piece of cheese at his face. 

“Ah, but where are my manners! Congratulations to the both of you.” He takes one of her hands in his and squeezes. “You deserve all the happiness in the world, my dear friend.”

Maybe she’ll save the cheese-chucking for another day.

“Thank you,” Ellana says, and means it. She would hug him, but she knows how he feels about public displays of affection.

“The child of the Herald of Andraste, born out of wedlock. Poor Josephine is going to have a heart attack.”

Ah, yes. She’s not looking forward to  _ that  _ conversation. 

“The child’s father is an elven apostate hedge mage,” Solas reminds him. “I think the Inquisitor’s marital status hardly matters in this case.”

“No desire to make a honest woman out of her?” Dorian probes, wiggling his brows.

Ellana thinks that Solas probably shouldn’t be responsible for anyone’s honesty, but she doesn’t mention it. Still, she can’t help grinning.

“I did not say that.” 

She almost chokes on her juice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's been watching Say Yes to the Dress.
> 
> Also, I haven't got the slightest idea about the cuisine of Thedas when it comes to breakfast. Whoops.


	8. Chapter 8

Ellana receives a letter from her Keeper. It’s short, more a note than anything else.

_Da'len,_

_Andaran atish'an. How are you? I have not heard from you lately. Though you must be busy these days, I hope you can find the time to put my mind at ease._

_Dareth shiral,_

_Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan_

In her mind, she drafts a reply.

 _Hey hahren, my boyfriend_ — _did I mention he’s the Dread Wolf?_ — _knocked me up, removed my vallaslin, and by the way did you know that our gods actually aren’t real gods? Nice talking to you!_

Well, maybe she should leave the whole Dread Wolf thing out for now... and possibly the vallaslin removal as well. For some reason she doubts it would sit well with Deshanna.

Void, she hadn’t even told her that Solas isn’t Dalish. To be fair, she hadn’t told her that he _is_ Dalish either; when Ellana had written her that she had met an elf, Deshanna had just made that assumption, and she hadn’t been about to correct her—there had been bigger problems at the time. Now she wishes she would have done so.

Before she has time to change her mind, she sits down at her desk and grabs some vellum and a fountain pen.

 _Hahren,_ she writes.

_An'eth'ara. I’m sorry for not getting in touch with you sooner. It wasn’t my intention to worry you. As you know, there are always new problems to deal with, but the Inquisition is doing well, as am I._

_I have, in fact, been meaning to write to you. There is something I need to tell you. I’ve written about Solas before, do you remember?_

_I don’t know how else to say this, hahren, so forgive me for coming straight to the point._

_To our surprise and joy, I am with child._

_I would have preferred to break the news to you in person, but for the time being, it’s better for me to stay here in Skyhold. I hope you understand, and that we might see each other soon._

_I send you all many blessings, greetings, good health and much love._

_Sule sal harthir,_ _  
_

_Ellana_

She sighs as she seals the letter. It’s no wonder Josephine writes the important ones and just makes her sign them. She’s really no good at it, but it’ll have to do—there’s no telling how Deshanna will react, even if her letter would be a literary masterpiece. The Keeper is quite tolerant, almost liberal, some would perhaps say, but there is still a traditional order to do this; a proposal, the exchange of presents, the bonding ceremony, celebrations, and _then_ children. Not the other way around.

Then again, she doesn’t feel very Dalish these days. Her clan, her vallaslin, the faith in the Creators—a lot of what had made her Dalish had been taken away from her, one way or the other.

Ellana’s thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Lady Josephine asks you to see her, Your Worship,” the servant girl tells her.  


* * *

 

 

For a brief moment she asks herself if she had missed some declaration of war or an invasion perhaps, because it has been quite a while since they had a meeting with all four of them attending, but neither Cullen nor Josephine or Leliana seem particularly concerned.

Still, when the ambassador greets her, she arches a brow. “Did I miss something?”

“We were just discussing relief efforts,” Josephine clarifies.

“How are they going?”

“Quite well,” Cullen answers. “We have the manpower as well as the financial resources.”

“Yes, but that’s not why I wanted to see you, Inquisitor. Empress Celene sent you another invitation to court. You cannot decline _again_.”

Well. Fuck. There is no way she’s visiting the Winter Palace while she’s carrying a child in her womb.

“Can’t we send her some flowers and that tea she loves with a note saying ‘Thanks, but no thanks’?” Ellana asks without much hope.

“Absolutely not! We cannot afford to snub the Empress. She’s too valuable an ally, and with the recent mistrust of the Inquisition, it would be wise to uphold this alliance.”

She hates the Orlesian court and its Game with a passion. A nest full of vipers, nothing more.

“Josie is right,” Leliana says. “You don’t have to go alone. You can take someone with you.”

“I _can’t_!”

Cullen shoots her a sympathetic look. She knows he hates nobility as much as she does. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, it’s just—I—I’m pregnant!”

The room suddenly goes completely quiet and with a sigh she gives up on the hope to become better at this particular announcement.

 _Like a druffalo in an Orlesian china shop_ , Vivienne had once described her. Turns out she hadn’t been all that wrong.

“ _How?_ ” Cullen says.

Leliana snickers. “Do you really not know, Commander?”

He flushes. It’s almost endearing.  

“Maker’s breath, I didn’t mean it like that!”

Josephine looks positively gobsmacked for a second, but she quickly schools her face into a neutral expression.

“Congratulations, Inquisitor. There is no reason to worry. We will simply issue an announcement before word gets around.”  

“Solas suggested that perhaps it’s best if we kept it a secret,” she notes.

“I’m afraid that’s not an option. If we try to keep it a secret, someone might leak the information, which would cast us in a negative light. If we use it as a reason to decline Celene’s invitation and she is the only person to know, she might use it as leverage.”

Ellana almost rolls her eyes. “It’s just a pregnancy, you know.”

“Yes, but you’re the Herald of Andraste,” Leliana interjects.

“Andraste had children!”

“With her _husband_ ,” Josephine says without malice.

“Fine, fine,” she sighs. “Go tell the world that I had sex.”

Cullen clears his throat, but he offers her a warm smile and his congratulations, as does Leliana.

And when she returns to her quarters later that night, Solas is already waiting for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andaran atish'an: Greetings   
>  An'eth'ara: Greetings   
>  Sule sal harthir: Until we hear of each other again
> 
> * * *


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not proofread yet, but I wanted to get it up. Sorry!

Solas is on his way to the garden when he meets Cullen halfway. 

The man comes to a halt in front of him, and after standing there for a few moments, seemingly unsure, gives him a pat on the shoulder alongside with his congratulations.  

He is surprised, to say the least.

Although he has not always seen eye to eye with the commander, he is a capable man, and Solas appreciates the gesture. He gives him his thanks and a friendly nod, which is returned, and they part ways.

The garden is beautiful at this time of the day. It is peaceful and almost picturesque in the morning light, and the smell calms his senses. He understands why Ellana often tends to it herself, though when he had asked shortly after their arrival at Skyhold, she had only told him that she enjoys getting her hands dirty with a suggestive wink. 

He had shook his head in amusement, but the encounter had thrown him off-balance for the rest of the day. 

Solas imagines the garden filled with the laughter of a child, chasing a butterfly, perhaps, and Ellana chasing after the child with an equally joyful laugh. It is not hard, he can see it before his eyes… and yet. 

Skyhold had never been Solas’s, it had belonged to Fen’Harel. It is the Inquisitor’s now, not Ellana’s. 

And it is a fortress, not a family home. 

He wonders how he has gotten to a point where the thought of a family home does not seem absurd to him. 

When he returns to the rotunda, most of Skyhold seems to have awoken, and there is a small, rectangular package on his desk, wrapped in plain but elegant paper and adorned with a simple ribbon. 

Solas eyes it with suspicion.

His agents know better than to contact him directly, and if this were an object to research, it would have been packaged differently, but he does not sense any enchantments or other magics, so he unwraps it with care. 

It is a book, bound in fine leather and accented in gold. It is old, he knows, but astoundingly well-preserved.

There is a card included. In elegant handwriting it says:   
  
_ In the name of the Inquisition, we wish to offer you our sincerest congratulations. _

It is signed by the ambassador and the spymaster

Solas sets the card aside and opens the book carefully. 

It is beautifully illuminated; but this is not what catches his eye. Instead his gaze is drawn to what he identifies as nursery stories and rhymes and lullabies, written down in ornate lettering. 

They are elvhen, both in origin and language. 

He can tell from the binding, the miniature drawings, the language. that this is no imitation, no fumbling attempt at recreation. It is from his time, his people, he realizes, and for a moment it is hard to breathe. 

The pain is too old and yet too recent, and he can feel it like a knife twisting inside of him. 

He forces himself to take deep breaths and think of the future instead of the past, and there he can see himself reading stories to his child, beautiful like its mother, singing it to sleep with songs long forgotten. He will tell it what the elvhen once were, and what they hopefully will become again.

Solas is so engrossed in both thought and the book that he does not hear Ellana enter, only noticing her presence when she hugs him from behind, pressing a kiss to his head. He closes his eyes for a moment and savors the warmth and the smell of citrus that surrounds her. 

“You were awake early today,” she says, letting her hands roam his chest.

He chuckles. “Perhaps you have become wont to sleep late.”

He is not sure how she can laugh and look indignant at the same time —it’s quite the skill, he finds— but she does, all the while taking a playful swat at his shoulder. 

“You were hogging the blankets, vhenan, and I could not fall asleep again. I thought fresh air would help me wake up. When I came back from the garden; I found this,” he says, motioning towards the book, “on my desk. It is a gift from Lady Montilyet and Sister Nightingale.” 

She slides on his lap and pulls it closer to inspect it, making an impressed noise as she traces the gold accents on its cover with her fingers. “That was fast.”

Solas raises an eyebrow. “You knew?”

“They asked me for suggestions. I wasn’t sure if such things even survived, much less in that condition, but Leliana insisted that it would be no problem.” Ellana grins, shifting to look at him. “I got chocolates and flowers.”

The gift had been her idea.

He just —he does not know what he had done to deserve her. 

His eyes burn and he has to squeeze them shut for a moment, lest he ruins this. 

“My heart —” 

She cuts him off by pressing her lips, warm and soft, to his. She tastes like the peppermint tea she likes to drink, and soon he has to pull away, or he would lose himself in the kiss. 

When they had started to converse more frequently amid the tumultuous days in Haven, he had called to her attention that he dislikes being interrupted. Not ten minutes later, she had done exactly that. Even in these early days he hadn’t had the heart to chastise her, much less now, when she gives his nose a final peck.

“I love you,” she says, taking his hand and lacing their fingers together. “And I understand. I may not want you to dwell on the past because I know it pains you, but that doesn’t mean you should just forget it all. It’s a part of you.”

He does not know how to respond and opts to nuzzle her cheek instead, inhaling her scent. It eases the lump in his throat.

“I can’t stay,” Ellana sighs after a few moments of quiet. “Josephine is making me attend a meeting with some Fereldan envoy.”

Solas had often acted impulsively when he had been young and hot-blooded, but he cannot come up with a sufficient explanation for the words that leave his mouth next. He is older now, much older, and should know better than to give voice to his every thought.

“Ane falon’saota.”

She freezes. “W -what?”

“Vira mar sal’shiral i’em.”

Ellana stares at him with a mix of disbelief and barely concealed joy. “Solas, if this is just because of Dorian’s teasing, I swear —”

He laughs; he cannot help himself. What an absurd thought.

“I love you.” It is the first time he says it in the common tongue. He can tell by the look on her face that she is aware of it. 

“I—of course!” She throws her arms around his neck and hugs him tightly, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Her next words are muffled. “Gods, yes. Absolutely.” 

His heart aches with emotion as he holds her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ane falon’saota: Be my bond mate.   
>  Sathan, vira mar sal’shiral i’em: Please, travel your soul journey with me. Essentially: Please spend your life with me.
> 
> * * *
> 
> "This is so cheesy," you say as I look at you, "How much cheesier will this get?" I let out a maniac cackle. "You have no idea," I say as I magically conjure my laptop, still laughing. You are scared and back away as I smash my keyboard. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> On a serious note: Thank you for all your comments and kudos. They are appreciated!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. 
> 
> You can hover over the Elvhen for translations now. Yay!

They don’t even manage to undress—her tunic is a lone piece of discarded clothing on the floor, and then her leggings are yanked down and she finds herself bend over his desk, bracing herself against the sturdy piece of furniture.

She can feel his length pressed against her and barely stifles a moan as his hands roam her body. They are warm and slightly rough against her soft skin, and any other day she would have gladly let him take his time, but she has been wanting him inside her all day long, and she’s unwilling to wait any more.

She can tell by the way he’s rocking against her that he feels the same. 

An impatient noise escapes her and he understands—one hand grips her hip while he uses the other to take hold of his length and guide himself inside her. When he finally presses in, she lets out a breathy sigh and takes a moment to enjoy the feeling of him filling and stretching her.

Their movements lack any sort of delicate nature. It’s rough and fast and she’s sure that his fingers will leave bruises, but she cannot bring herself to care about anything but the roll of his hips. She comes undone without touching herself, all the pent up frustration leaving her body, and he hisses, movements stuttering before he finds his rhythm again.

It’s not long before she can feel the telltale heat pooling low in her abdomen again, and she finds herself clenching around him almost unconsciously. He bites back a moan as he brings one of his hands between her thighs, finding her nub and rolling it between his fingers.

Ellana closes her eyes as she dissolves into pleasure a second time and lets out an obscene cry of relief, and when he presses his hips hard against her, burying himself deep and spilling inside her with a harsh growl, she gasps.

They stay likes this for a moment, the sound of their heavy breathing loud in the quiet of his room, and she suppresses a small shudder as he slides free of her, leaving a trace of wetness on her inner thigh.  

He places a small kiss behind her ear before peeling himself off her. Rather than making themselves presentable, they undress entirely, slipping under the blankets on his bed once they’re done, and she settles against him, sighing contently. 

His fingers idly stroke her waist, and she turns her head, pressing a kiss against his throat. After a long day of yearning, the post-coital glow is pure bliss. She feels utterly sated and boneless, smiling when he brushes his lips over her forehead.

This is now the fourth time she had practically jumped his bones because she’s unable to quell her need for him until he joins her in her quarters at night, and it’s starting to get embarrassing. Apparently the pregnancy hormones do not only heighten her already considerable sexual desire immensely—no, they’re also to blame for the lack of control that has her rubbing against Solas in broad daylight. 

The thought makes her flush, but she’s so sensitive and it feels so good and—

When she looks up, she sees an amused smile playing around Solas’s lips. 

“I’m sorry,” she groans, burying her face in his chest. “I have no control over myself.”

He laughs. “You do not hear me complain, do you, ‘ma’av’in?"

“Well, I’m sure Cassandra would, if she could stop blushing when she looks at me.”

“The rotunda offers little privacy,” he says, running his fingers through her hair. “It is perhaps not the best location for such activities.”

No shit.

“Where was  _ that  _ assessment when you were taking me against one of your frescoes?” she teases. 

“I was… distracted.”

Ellana snickers, the sound muffled by his skin. “Clearly.”

“Your scent—it is rather intoxicating.”

Her head snaps up.

Wait, what?

“You can  _ smell _ it?”

She remembers the banquet the Inquisition had hosted a few days ago and feels her face heat up. It had been agonizingly boring, and she had spent the majority of the time thinking about his face between her legs.

“My kind has a keen sense of smell,” Solas explains, seemingly amused. “Emotions carry a perceptible scent, though arousal is undoubtedly one of the more distinct, for reproductive reasons. It seems the pregnancy has a heightening effect on yours.”

Good thing the sentinels hadn’t taken her up on the offer to join the Inquisition, then.  _ That  _ would have made for some awkward conversations.

Ellana snuggles up to him even closer. She loves this—being close enough to listen to his heartbeat, touching skin to skin, the warmth of him next to her.

“Deshanna has written me back,” she says after a while. “She said to give you her regards and wished Mythal’s blessing upon us.”

He traces her furrowed brow with one finger. “And that troubles you?”

“She told me that she would like to visit. I—I guess a part of me thought that I wouldn’t see anyone of my clan again. I’m bare-faced now, Solas. How am I going to explain that? Vallaslin isn’t removable, not as far as they know.”

“Ir abelas, vhenan. I should not have—”

She takes his hand, laces their fingers together, squeezes. “I was angry at first, but I’m glad you told me. It’s just… you really pissed me off with your comments about the Dalish sometimes, but I think I understand now, at least a little. If I tried to tell them the truth… they wouldn’t react well.”

“I assume simply telling them I am the Dread Wolf is out of the question?” he asks dryly, and she laughs.

“Ass.”

Solas chuckles, the sound warm and vibrating, and she guides their joined hands to the considerable swell of her stomach. Time is going by so fast—it feels like just weeks ago she had told him about their child, and now almost half of the pregnancy has already gone by.

“We need a name,” Ellana tells him, “and I will not be the one to make that choice. I’m serious, Solas.”

“And why is that, arasha?”

“In our clan, every child gets a toy once they turn five. Sometimes it’s a stuffed animal or something of the sort, but I asked for a doll. I was overjoyed when I received one, and my mother told me that we should give it a name. I thought about it, long and hard, and came up with  _ Harava _ . My father thought it was hilarious.”

“You were a child,” he points out, but she can tell that he’s smiling without looking at him.

“Well, yes, but I haven’t gotten any better at it.” Which is true—she had called that very first horse they had received from Dennet  _ Safal _ .

She stifles a yawn. Raindrops are starting to patter on the windows; both the sound of it and the rhythmic rise and fall of Solas’s chest are lulling her to sleep, and she finds herself nodding off sooner than she had expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently pregnancy sex is amazing, or so I heard.


	11. Chapter 11

“This is ridiculous,” Ellana declares.

She’s sitting on her bed cross-legged, with Dorian next to her, an assortment of all kinds of creams and other cosmetics spread out between them. 

This is decidedly not her idea. She doesn’t know why she has let them talk her into this.

She doesn’t know why Solas hasn’t tried to talk her out of it, either.

“Nonsense, my dearest. This is a perfectly sensible tradition,” Dorian tells her.

“How is not spending the night before our ceremony with my future bondmate ‘perfectly sensible’?”

“It stems from the notion that bride and groom should not know each other carnally until their union is blessed before the Maker and Andraste,” he says. “Not that I would know, I’m certainly not speaking out of experience.”

“Which I would be perfectly fine with if we weren’t two elves who clearly”—she motions at her rounded stomach—”know each other carnally _. _ ” 

“Oh, we all know, trust me.”

Ellana groans, making a feeble attempt at slapping him. Is there anyone left in this fortress that doesn’t know about her sex life in detail?

She can’t imagine Solas putting up with all this, but then again, stranger things have happened. 

Or maybe not.

Dorian hands her another jar of cream. It has an Orlesian label and smells of prophet’s laurel and crystal grace, and she crinkles her nose. Why do they even bother to use all of this if they just wear their creepy masks anyway?

“How do you feel?”

Positively giddy, for one. Ever since they had picked out her dress, she couldn’t keep herself from grinning like an idiot, much to everyone’s amusement. 

And impatient. She has never been good at waiting, and this is no exception. Perhaps it is cheesy beyond measure, and she wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but she can’t wait to call Solas her bondmate.

Hers.

“I’m a little... excited,” she confesses.

He takes her hand in his and gives it a light squeeze. “Well, Josephine has surpassed herself. It all looks absolutely marvelous.”

She hums in agreement.

Her friends had been more than happy for her—including Sera, though she did complain about “banging bits meaning even more now”. Cassandra had gushed about the romanticism of it all, until Varric’s teasing had shut her up. Even Vivienne had sent her a silk robe and a card to congratulate them, and Bull had organized a little party to celebrate.

And Josephine… well, Josephine seems to be more than happy to plan the whole thing. Ellana isn’t allowed to see, but from what she hears, the garden is decorated beautifully.

She’s not generally clumsy, but when she’s nervous… What if—what if she’ll stumble and fall and rip her dress in the process is front of everyone? In front of Solas—

“You’ll be fine,” Dorian interrupts her thoughts, patting her thigh. “Now, I shall warm up the bath I had the servants drew for you before I go. And you better not pass up that beauty rest, young lady.”

She gives him a grateful nod. A warm bath always does wonders for her nervs.

As he heats up the water, she disappears behind the stone wall and exchanges her tunic and leggings for the newly gifted silk robe. Once he’s done, he hugs her goodbye, and she finds herself alone in her quarters.

There are lemon peels and rose petals floating in the bathtub. She shrugs off the robe and lets it pool at her feet, dipping a toe into the water. It’s hot, but pleasantly so, and she sinks down carefully, inhaling the citrusy scent. 

She lets her head fall back. The warmth relaxes her muscles and lulls her in, and she has a hard time keeping her eyes open. She is, in fact, close to nodding off when she hears the faint sound of footsteps approaching. 

Everyone had bid her good night hours ago.

If there’s an emergency the night before her bonding ceremony, she will kill someone.

If someone, after all these years, manages to sneak into her quarter to finish her off while she’s naked and wet, she will come back as a spirit and haunt them for the rest of their hopefully miserable life. 

Before she can look for a makeshift weapon, however, Solas steps into the dim light of her quarters.

Ellana stifles a laugh.

“Well, this is a surprise. I’m scandalized.”

The corners of his mouth twitch, but he looks too serious for her liking. She knows him quite well now—something is amiss. 

“Cold feet?” she asks lightly, and hopes he doesn’t pick up on her voice wavering.

His expression remains unreadable as he sits down on the settee. She gets up, dries herself off with the towel she had put next to the bathtub earlier and slips into her robe again, hair still damp.

Solas lets his gaze wander as she joins him, fixing it on her face eventually.

“During the times of Arlathan, bonding was not a thing to be taken lightly,” he says. “Those bonded had an unique connection. They could sense each other’s emotions, no matter how far apart they were. Such bonds were permanent and could not be broken.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“It was. The Veil took that away, like so many other things.” There is an undeniable melancholy in his voice. “Still, the meaning of such a bond remains the same.”

She blinks. “Of course.”

“Forever is a long time, my heart, even for mortals. I would have you think about this decision.”

Ellana goes still. 

She—she doesn’t understand. 

“Are you having second thoughts?” she asks.

_ Please do not have second thoughts _ . 

His eyes find hers. They are more gray than blue now. “Never—but I fear that you will come to regret this one day.”

The relief is so overwhelming that she almost starts to laugh, warmth unfurling inside her. She manages to catch herself quickly.

“Solas,” she breathes, leaning in, and touches her nose to his, an affectionate, innocent gesture. “I made this decision long ago, when I first kissed you, and ever since then, over and over again.”

He nuzzles her cheek and sighs. “I am sorry, vhenan. I do not doubt you. Duty has kept me alone for a long time, and I am often unsure of myself. I wish to see you happy, and I fear that I ruin what I touch—”

Ellana traces his lower lip with her thumb, and he closes his eyes, falling silent. “You make me happy.”

“Then I am glad for it.” Solas tucks a stray strand of her hair behind her ear, and she smiles.

“Let’s go to bed, ‘ma’sa’lath.” 

She has never understood the point of shemlen traditions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stop overthinking, Solas.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hover over the Elvhen for translations or check out the end notes!

Ellana sleeps better that night than she had expected.

When she wakes up in the morning, it’s late, even for her standards. Solas is gone, and she vaguely remembers him pressing his lips to her brow before he had slipped out of her quarters.

A servant brings her breakfast. Though her nervousness makes her feel slightly queasy, she does her best to finish it, and after splashing her face with cold water from the jug on her nightstand, she feels better.

Dorian and Leliana come to her not much later. They joke around as they help her get dressed, and do her hair while she memorizes her vows.

She applies the tinted balm Leliana offers her to her cheeks and lips and wonders what Solas is doing. The thought makes her smile.

When they are finally done, noon is fading into evening.

Dorian tells her that she’s beautiful, that Solas should consider himself lucky. Her laugh dies on her lips when she sees herself in the mirror for the first time. It’s not that she makes a habit of thinking herself ugly—she’s never had the luxury of being concerned with her appearance too much; there had been no time for vanity.

She has simply never seen herself like this before. Her hair is pulled back loosely, adorned by a long, delicate headpiece, set with crystals and silver leafs. The bodice of her dress, antique white and sleeveless, is embroidered, and her skirts are layers of gossamer material in the same color.

The throne room is decorated magnificently, with flowers in pale colors, matching fabric and shimmering details, but in her excitement, she pays little attention to it.  

She’s glad Dorian is leading her. She thinks she might fall into a sprint if he didn’t. Or a jog, at least. Not very dignified.

Skyhold’s garden is dipped in twilight, but there are little lights floating around, not unlike veilfire—though in a much warmer hue.

Ellana would like to admire the beautiful decorations for longer, but as they step around another corner, all she can take in are the smiling faces of her friends.

And then she sees him, and it feels like her heart stops for a moment.

He stands under the arch of the stone pavilion, wearing a simple, cream-colored robe and a pale pelt over his shoulder.

To say that he looks good would be a vast understatement.

When his eyes catch hers, something inside her shifts, and she feels calm, suddenly, like this is meant to be.

They take a few more steps, and then Dorian squeezes her hand one last time before he puts it in Solas’s and joins the rest of their friends.

For a moment they look at each other, and time seems to stand still. She blinks away a tear, and he catches it with his thumb.

His voice is low and almost reverent when he speaks the vows. Hers is quiet, but clear for everyone to hear.

_ Ma juveremas sael'prear or emma dil _

_ Sael davathe or emma hyn _

_ Sasha mar melin julahnan fra nydha _

_ Sasha mar inan juithan fra dhea _

_ Juame mar shalasha, la ane emma _

_ Telam'aven judirtha or em'an _

_ Var vas druast i'em'an, i alinen tel'juhartha ebalasha _

_ Juleanathan i myathan na ove min'sal'shiral, i su uth'then'era _

Once they are done, she wastes no time and kisses him fiercely. There are wolf-whistles from Sera and the Iron Bull, and then they are all standing up, cheering and clapping. When she breaks away from him, his face is flushed, and she can’t help the jubilant smile spreading across her face.

“You are so beautiful,” he tells her, voice raw with emotion.

She wraps her arms around his neck and laughs, and then there are hands on her shoulder and back and congratulations being shouted, and in the corner of her eyes she sees Josephine offering Cassandra a handkerchief.

The food is delicious. There’s tender meat and roasted vegetables and potatoes, and little cakes and other sugary pastry she feeds to him in a private moment, when no one is looking and he allows her. He kisses the sticky sweetness from her fingers and in the corner of her eyes she can see Varric winking at her, and it’s all perfect.

Cullen drinks a toast to them, and then they dance. There are instruments being played, sweet, melodic sounds, and it’s more swaying than dancing in the beginning, with her head tucked under his chin and his arms around her, and whispered declarations of love, but their friends join in soon, and the music picks up, and it’s all a blur then.

She only sits down when her feet start to hurt.

More alcohol is served, of which she has none, of course, but Solas seems to enjoy the wine, and she knows for a fact that the Iron Bull is pouring out maraas-lok.

It feels good to see everybody let loose.

When Solas sits down next to her, she can’t help but laugh at his flushed ears.

“Are you a little drunk, emma lath?”

“I am no such thing,” he assures her, perhaps a bit too emphatically to be convincing.

Ellana leans closer to press a kiss on his cheek. “It makes me so happy to see you like this.”

“It makes you happy to see me inebriated? That is a peculiar preference.”

“Carefree,” she says softly. “At ease.”

“Ah,” he replies quietly, and for a moment she fears it had been the wrong thing to say. “Yes. I suppose that is entirely your doing.”

“Give yourself some credit.” She nudges him playfully. “Still, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Solas smiles. “You should.”

The kiss they share is tender and slow—he tastes like wine and sugar, and when he catches her lower lips between his, she almost forgets where they are until he pulls back.

As it gets later, the mood mellows out. More and more of their friends join them, the music fades into the background, and there are stories and anecdotes shared.

Soon the frequent yawns around the table are too hard to ignore, and when Sera falls asleep on Dagna’s shoulder and Cassandra seems to have trouble keeping her eyes open, she decides to call it a night.

There are more congratulations then, and hugs, and lots of suggestively wiggling eyebrows, before everyone is on their way and Solas and her find themselves alone.

They climb the stairs to her quarters hand in hand, and he does carry her over the threshold—a tradition that originated in Elvhenan, not Tevinter, he tells her—but she laughs and squeals and he lets her down gently.

They undress each other slowly and with care. She’s exhausted, and when he climbs into bed next to her, she thinks she might fall asleep with his arms wrapped around her, but as they touch skin to skin, exhaustion makes way for the desire to be as near to him as possible, to be one with him.

Their lovemaking is unhurried and almost lazy, leisured strokes that take her to a gentle peak, and when she feels him pulsing inside her not much later, she thinks she loves him so fiercely that her heart might burst.

Ellana can barely bring herself to move afterwards, and she knows Solas must be just as tired as she is, but he still gets up and comes back with a damp cloth to clean them off, first her, then him. She mumbles her thanks, and he just laughs softly as he settles down at her side again, pressing a kiss to her hair.

When the next morning comes, she greets him with the softest kiss, followed by a whispered, "On dhea, ‘ma’len."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The vows** :   
>    
>  _You shall have the first cut of my meat_  
>    
>    
>  _The first sip of my wine_  
>    
>    
>  _Only your name shall I cry during the night_  
>    
>    
>  _Only your eyes shall I see in the morning_  
>    
>    
>  _I shall be your armor, as you are mine_  
>    
>    
>  _No bad words shall be spoken of us_  
>    
>    
>  _Our bond is sacred with us, and others shall not hear my grief_  
>    
>    
>  _I shall worship and praise you through this life, and into uth'then'era_  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> Emma lath: My love  
> On dhea: Good morning  
> ‘Ma’len: Husband/boyfriend. A much more poetic variant. Lit. Myself, my male person


	13. Chapter 13

She’s huge now. 

At night she has trouble falling asleep. Her belly is constantly in the way and makes her favorite sleeping positions impossible. It’s not until Solas helps her arrange some pillows to support her that she can find sleep, and when she finally does, she wakes up several times because she has to pee.

She’s just tired of being tired. 

She snaps at Cullen after one of these nights, and he’s visibly taken aback—even more so when she almost starts crying a moment later, and apologizes not once, not twice, but three times.

It’s Solas who bears the brunt of it, however. He gives her back rubs, informs the servants of her latest cravings, and makes a noticeable effort to stay calm as he tries to soothe her, while she makes a perhaps less noticeable effort to pull herself together. 

Which seems nearly impossible most days.

She’s lounging on the sofa in the rotunda while Solas is working on his translations—a book from Arlathan—with the newest issue of Hard in Hightown and the softest blanket she could find, when Dorian drops by. 

He’s came back from Minrathous this morning, but she’s been in meetings all day long, wondering if that shem Arl Teagan would ever give up on trying to bully them into submission, and when she had been done, Dorian had been busy spending… time with Bull.

“Sweet Maker,” he says when he spots her, “you are colossal. How are you not bursting yet?”

She pats her swollen belly and sighs. “The midwife and the healer say it could be any day now.”

“I should hope so. You don’t want to overcook it, do you?”

Ellana wishes she had something to throw at him. 

He leans against the scaffolds and grins. “How are you going to push that out of you?”

_ Well _ . It’s not like she hasn’t asked herself the same thing for weeks now.

“You know, I wonder about the opposite every time you’re off with Bull,” she tells him blithely.

“Ah, well, all you need is a good amount of oil and—”

The steady scrape of pen on paper falters.

“Oh, for…” Solas interrupts them with an exasperated sigh. “That is quite enough,  _ thank you _ .”

Dorian laughs. “Are you two still doing it on every surface in this fortress? I imagine that’s become rather difficult.”

“No, just—” she begins, but Solas shoots her a withering glare.

When he turns to his book again, she looks at Dorian and raises two fingers to her mouth in a V, and sticking her tongue between them, licks up and down.

“ _ Vhenan _ ,” he chides, obviously having caught the obscene gesture, and she snickers. 

“You’re terrible,” Dorian tells her cheerfully. “Did you know that apparently sex can induce labor? Perhaps that’s something you want to try.” 

Solas sighs.

“I heard shems don’t have sex at all during pregnancy, because pregnant women are considered impure.” 

“That sounds like a Fereldan notion. I doubt anyone in Tevinter gives a shit about impurity if it’s not about bloodlines.”

_ Probably not _ , she thinks, yawning. Tired yet again—what a surprise.

She wouldn’t say so out loud, but between the nausea, the back strain, the mood swings and now the constant fatigue, she’ll be glad once this pregnancy is over. Then she could look back at the happy moments; there were more of them than she would ever have guessed at the beginning.  

A particularly old tome on the desk draws Dorian’s attention then, and he asks Solas a question. Their conversation fades into the background—she doesn’t pay much mind to it, but she’s glad to hear that Solas replies in more than just terse sentences. 

It’s not long until the steady murmuring makes her eyes drift shut. When she opens them again, Dorian is gone and the candles have almost burned down.

For a moment she feels disoriented, until she realizes that she is, in fact, not in her bed.

Ellana rubs her eyes as she tries to get up, back aching, and then she feels it.

A tightening in her abdomen, extremely unpleasant but bearable—much the same as the cramps that plague her during her monthly bleeding. 

“Well, fuck me,” she mutters to herself after taking a deep breath. “Solas?”

Her voice echoes through the rotunda.

Of course he would be nowhere to be seen.

With a sigh she makes her way to the throne room, almost deserted now, save for a few servants. A fairly young elf notices her, and bows her head. 

“Have you seen Solas, by any chance?” Ellana asks.

The servant shakes her head, but another one, just as young, pipes up, “I saw Master Solas on his way to the old library, Your Worship.”

“If you see him again, could you tell him to come find me in my quarters?”

“Of course, Your Worship.”

She gives them a weak smile 

Climbing the stairs to her quarters has her breathless in no time. She remembers tracking through the Hinterlands for the majority of the day—another thing that’s inconceivable to her at the moment. 

Not that she particularly misses the bears.

The fire in the hearth is still burning, and Ellana opens the balcony door to step outside, shuddering when the mountain air hits her skin as she supports herself against the railing and takes a deep breath. She doesn’t know how long she stands there, but when the cold on her skin becomes too biting, she goes back inside and changes into a nightgown.

She’s tying her hair up when he enters, just as her stomach clenches again.

“Vhenan?” he says, a quizzical look on his face.

“Don’t panic.” At the thought of Solas panicking she has to stifle a laugh. “It’s happening.”

His eyes dart from her face to her rounded middle and then back to her face again. “You are certain?”

“Quite, my love,” she tells him with a smile as she sits down on the bed. “This will be the last peace and quiet for a long time. We should enjoy it while it lasts.”

Solas takes a seat next to her. “I believe it was you who once told me that peace and quiet are overrated.”

“That does sound like me.”

“Indeed.” His lips curve upwards slightly. “Shall I send for the midwife, my heart?”

“Not just yet. It might still be a while.” She had spoken to the midwife about it—there was no need to fetch her immediately.

“You should rest, then,” he says softly. 

Ellana hums in agreement, though she feels too restless to lie still.

“Will you tell me a story?” she asks. 

Eventually she does fall asleep to the low, calming sound of his voice.


	14. Chapter 14

The midwife is a resolute woman. Her dark hair, streaked with grey, is tugged into a plain coif, and she wears an apron over her equally plain dress.

When she spots him on the edge of the bed, next to Ellana, her eyes narrow. “What is this?”

“Excuse me?” Solas replies with as much politeness as he can muster.

“Childbirth is women’s business,” she says, firmly but not unkind. “This is no place for a man.”

Ah.

“You will find that we care little for such conventions,” he says, and holds her disapproving stare until she looks away.

“As you will,” the woman huffs.

A small whimper escapes Ellana, and she grips his hand almost painfully tight. The soothing endearments he offers are most likely of little consolation to her, but it is all he can do at present.

The midwife’s face softens slightly. “How are you feeling, Your Worship?”

“Ellana, please. My pains”—she breathes sharply through her nose—”they are coming quickly, and they feel very strong.”

“Your servant informed me that you have already expelled the fluid from your womb. It shouldn’t be long now.” Then she turns to him. “If you insist on staying, make yourself useful, young man.”

For a moment he bristles—but the woman is correct. He assists her in spreading a linen towel underneath Ellana’s hips and heats up the water in the basin next to the bed until it begins to steam.

“Now, my dear, there’s no point in lying. This will be painful,” the midwife says as she dips her hands into the water without flinching and washes them thoroughly. “Remember that your body is built to do this, and listen to my instructions. You almost certainly will feel like giving up. Do not, and instead be of good cheer—for most women this happens when they are nearing the end of labor.”

Solas watches as she steps around the bed and asks Ellana to spread her legs.

It is all he can do to murmur quiet words of comfort as one hand clutches the sheets while the other nearly crushes his own.

By the end of it, her hair is matted with sweat, nightgown clinging to her body, and her voice is hoarse from screaming.

The sound of their child’s first wail is a sweet, beautiful thing.

“You have a fine little girl,” the midwife declares.

He very nearly does not believe his eyes when she places the bundle, washed and wrapped up in a blanket, into his arms.

His daughter.

She is—she is _beautiful_ , with wide eyes and a head full of auburn hair, and so fragile that he fears breaking her.

He lets out a shuddering breath, eyes burning.

For a moment he is certain that this is a dream; that it will slip away from him any second, but then—

“Solas,” Ellana says softly.

 _Real_ , he tells himself, and focuses on the warm weight in his arms. _This is real_.

“Come here,” she says.

When he hands her their daughter, she looks at her with a wonder that reflects his own.

He cannot help himself; he presses a kiss to her damp forehead, and she smiles so sweetly that he has to swallow the lump in his throat.

“She’s so tiny,” Ellana breathes.

A soft laugh escapes him. “Is the name still to your liking?”

“It’s perfect,” she says. “She’s perfect.”

She pulls down her nightgown to bare one of her breasts. The small bundle in her arms stirs, and he watches as their daughter latches on. The scene is so intimate that his breath hitches, and for the first time in aeons, he feels—

He feels at home.

The realization almost startles yet another laugh out of him.

So much is wrong with this world, yet this feels more right than anything ever had.

“We should let the others know,” Ellana interrupts her faint humming of what sounds like a lullaby. “They’re probably on pins and needles. I know that at least half of them bet that we’d have a boy.”

The midwife speaks up before he is able to answer. “Your Worship, I shall take my leave for now to give you some privacy, unless you require my assistance?” She glances at him.

“I will take care of it,” Solas assures her. “If you happen across one of the servants, would you kindly tell them that we are in need of new bedding?”

She nods. “Of course.”

“Thank you.”

Once they are alone and their daughter lies securely in her cradle—it is quite hard to let her out of his sight, Solas finds—he assists her in washing.

He removes Ellana’s nightgown carefully and rinses a cloth in the freshly refilled basin, wringing it out to keep it from dripping. He runs it over her bare skin in a relaxing pattern, and she lets out a pleased sigh.

When he is done, he sets it aside and helps her slip into a robe.

At last he weaves her hair into a braid, raking through it gently. He does it efficiently, with the skill of a man whose fingers have gone through the motions more times than one could count.

“Ma serannas,” she says with a smile, once he has secured the braid. “Do I look presentable now?”

“Perfectly so,” he tells her. “You are beautiful.”

That she still flushes makes it all the more endearing.

“Sweet talker,” she accuses.

His answering snort is, perhaps, rather undignified.

She grins. “Now go tell our friends before they decide to beat a path to our door.”

 _Our_ friends.

Odd how this has become yet another truth.

He finds them all in the otherwise almost empty throne room. The noise certainly compensates for the lack of occupants; he is quite sure that the game of Wicked Grace has been Varric’s idea.

“Oi, baldilocks!”

Of course Sera would be the first one to take notice of him.

Their heads turn.

“Well what is it? Spit it out!”

They seem to collectively hold their breaths.

Solas clears his throat. “A girl.”

The Iron Bull groans as he throws no small amount of gold on the table.

“And the Inquisitor?” Cassandra asks. “Is she all right?”

“All is well,” he assures.

The applause and the cheers that erupt make it near impossible to suppress a smile.

Perhaps that is not such a bad thing after all.

 

* * *

 

She is so _tiny_.

It’s not like she has never seen a newborn baby. She knows that they’re tiny.

But now that she’s holding her in her arms, it’s—it’s overwhelming, the thought that Solas and her made _this_ , so she focuses on these details as she waits for their friends, on the button nose, the tiny hands and the big, blue eyes.

And Solas… he looks like he can’t quite believe any of this is real. She knows she will have to remind him from time to time, but that’s okay.

It’s all worth it in the end.

Ellana is tired and aches despite the healing potion she has had earlier, but she still smiles when she hears the commotion outside her door, and even more so when Cassandra and Dorian are the first ones to enter, who promptly turns around to look at the rest of the group and shush them.

“Is everything well?” Solas asks from behind them.

She laughs. “You’ve been gone for no more than five minutes. We’re fine, emma lath.”

To her amusement he almost looks a little sheepish.

When Bull closes the door behind him, the little bundle in her arm stirs, as if she senses their expectant gazes.

“You’re like family to me,” she says. “And I know you’ll be like family to her, so I wanted you to be the first ones to meet Adhalea.”

“Ah, shit. You’re gonna make me cry if you keep this up,” Varric warns her. “Look, kid already has more hair than Chuckles. You sure it’s his?”

Sera snickers. Solas sighs.

“Positive,” she laughs, and very lightly brushes a finger over her daughter’s head. “She has his hair color.”

“How would you know?”

“Eyebrows.” She wriggles hers with a grin. “The carpet matches the drapes.”

A collective groan goes through the room and Solas gives her an utterly indignant look, but the baby in her arms doesn’t seem nearly as fazed as she curls her tiny fingers around one of Ellana’s.

“She’s just as beautiful as her uncle,” Dorian says, and she already knows that he’ll spoil her rotten.

Even should anything happen to Solas and her, their daughter will never want for anything.

The thought is both painful and comforting.

“She is,” Cassandra agrees. “May I ask if the name has a meaning?”

Solas tilts his head. “It is an old elvhen name. ‘Light of dawn’ would be a fitting translation.”

“Ugh. Elven glory.” Sera rolls her eyes, and Ellana can’t help the laugh that escapes her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how common that is, but newborn babies with a full head of hair are adorable.
> 
> * * *
> 
> ETA: I've never witnessed a birth, other than my own, which I can't... exactly remember. Obviously I've seen women giving birth in movies, but I also heard that they can be quite unrealistic, so I went for vagueness—and I hope no one holds against me that I kind of glossed over the whole soreness that follows childbirth.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!

Ellana wakes slowly.

She's disoriented, but scrubbing over her face, she vaguely remembers flopping down on the bed to rest for a short while after their daughter had finally calmed down enough to be settled down in her cradle.    

She hasn’t had more than three hours of uninterrupted sleep since Adhalea’s birth.

As she tries to get her bearings, she hears the faint murmur of a voice before she can make out the source of it.

And then she sees Solas, cradling Adhalea in his arms. He speaks quietly, rocking her gently, and even in the dim light she can make out the intent look on his face. Though not all words are familiar to her, she does catch some of them—such as  _ love _ , among others.

“Emma nehn,” he says, pressing his lips to her brow. “Emma en’an’sal.”

_ My joy. My blessing. _

And then their daughter hiccups, and Solas laughs softly.

Ellana doesn’t want to interrupt this moment—she gets up quietly, bare feet on the cold floor, and only now realizes that Solas must have taken off her boots. He looks so focused she isn’t sure if he does not hear her, but when she comes to a halt behind him, she wraps her arms around his waist slowly, so as to not startle him. 

She presses a kiss to the nape of his neck before resting her cheek on his back, and he makes a pleased sound. They stay like this for a while, long enough to treasure the moment, to commit it to memory.

These moments are what makes the past weeks more than worth it—and they have not been easy.

She had still been sore, the sleepless nights had made her unbearably irritable when she hadn’t been used to them yet, and she had often felt overwhelmed. 

There had been one night in particular when Adhalea wouldn’t feed—instead she had cried from the top of her lungs for hours, and nothing would calm her.

If it hadn’t been for Solas, she thinks, she would probably have been on the verge of a breakdown. 

“You slept so peacefully, I could not bring myself to wake you,” Solas interrupts her thoughts as he turns around, a small smile on his lips.

“Is that your way of telling me that I snored?” she asks him, eyebrows raised.

The corners of his mouth twitch. “I would never.”

And then the bundle in his arms starts to whimper.

“Someone is hungry.” Ellana laughs, takes her from Solas carefully. She still marvels at how natural it feels to nurse her. Their daughter latches on without reluctance and drinks from her with a lot of enthusiasm for such a small thing.

When her eyes drift shut entirely, Ellana lays her down in her cradle after whispering her own endearments.

Then they settle down, too; Solas undresses himself and puts his clothes away semi-neatly while she yanks hers off carelessly, leaving them scattered on the floor—they would have to be washed tomorrow anyway.

Once they are in bed, he props himself up against the headboard, with her lying half atop on him, head resting on his chest. 

She thinks this might easily be her favorite time of the day—his warm body next to her, the quiet talking, falling asleep to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

“We should rest while we have the chance,” Solas says after a while.

Ellana makes a consenting sound, then—rather than trying to get comfortable—leans up to kiss him. There is no heat at first, only comfort. It changes when she nips at his lower lip. He makes a low noise, and then she can feel his hand in her hair. She lets her mouth wander, trails kisses over his jaw, down his throat, and he inhales sharply as she nips him, sucking at the skin. 

She does not get any further—breathing harshly, Solas breaks away from her.

“Vhenan,” he admonishes. “We can’t.”

A frustrated noise escapes her. She flops back on the bed.

She knows that they can’t. Of course she knows. 

_ One last thing, to spare you any embarrassment that might prevent you from asking,  _ the midwife had said, after giving her final well wishes. _ I would recommend you to abstain from your marital duties for at least three fortnights. Perhaps even four. _

And that had all been good and well; at first she had still been sore, the thought not even crossing her mind, and then their entire focus had been on their daughter—it still is, just not in such an extreme extent. Though she’s undeniably aroused, it’s not that it’s the heady rush of undistilled lust she feels now. It’s more a need to be as close to him as possible. 

The rest of it is of minor importance, at least for the moment. But that closeness—she misses that already.

She buries her face in the crook of his neck, half out of embarrassment, half out of frustration.

“They say patience is a virtue,” Solas tells her, amusement coloring his voice. His fingers stroke through her hair gently. 

“I know,” she grumbles. “I’m sorry.”

“You do not have to be,” says Solas, his lips brushing against her temple.

She shoots a pointed look to where his half-hard erection presses against her thigh.

He chuckles. “I have gone without for much longer than this, I assure you.” His voice softens. “It is a small price to pay for what we have gained in return.”

Ellana closes her eyes. There is a reverence in his voice whenever he talks about their daughter that tugs at her heartstrings.

She finds his hand, laces their fingers together.

“Ar lath ma,” she says.

A small breath escapes him. “Ar lath ma, arasha.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't promise that updates will come as regularly as I tried to keep up before my hiatus because life is difficult at the moment, but I have not abandoned this and will try to do my best!


End file.
